Thursday, December 6, 2007

The Beholder

//the beholder

"The Beholder" (latest version)by Elizabeth Southwood(c) March 1998nto May6The widow taps her stick as she shuffles with rounded back around her dusty house. She's lived there 60 years. Her pale, gleaming eyes, which stare without sight, reflect silver like a winter lake. Her hands used to bealways busy, weeding or planting. Shefound feathers, driftwood, thistles, and blossoms she made into wreaths and decorations.She bought thrift-shop sweaters for a dollar, unravelled, washed and colored them with herbs or roots gathered while hiking, knitted theminto pullovers with a designer's flair or into Irish-style cardiganswith carved wooden buttons. Her biggest thrift-shop coup was the never-worn ultrasuede suit of Tiffany-blue she found at St. Vincent de Paul. From soft, thin yarn she dipped in dye, she knit an elegant, matchingsweater. Wearing this nonpareil outfit, her eyes glowed, her cheeks flushed pink with pleasure.

Her house's scent is ancient potpourri.For company, she turns on the tvher daughters gave her when her husband died.On cloudless mornings of blazing sun whenshe can make out shapes, she steeps green tea, which she pours carefully into a cup she used to hold high to look at the glow of sunlight through china like through shoji screens.

There's a niche cut in the wall above a smallish splashing fountain in her white front hall. When she could still see she dried and hungthere a garland of eucalyptus, rose

quince, lavender, mists of whitest statice, placed it by a caramel ivory Kwan Yin who called to her years ago from a shadowy corner at a garagesale, choosing her like a cat its owner. At night the niche is lit with golden light.She seems to see a few gold sequins dance.The clouds of statice prickle her handsas she bids good night. She loves, she savorsthe scent of the lavender, and smooths the ivory with an artist's reverence.